


Tonnerre

by Carolinian_Bog_Hermit



Series: Miscellaneous Vampire: The Masquerade Drabbles [1]
Category: Vampire: The Masquerade, Vampire: The Masquerade – Bloodlines (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:20:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26760532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carolinian_Bog_Hermit/pseuds/Carolinian_Bog_Hermit
Summary: Sabbat Templar Sebastian LaCroix receives his orders after a shift of power in the Los Angeles Camarilla. Takes place in an AU where Prince LaCroix works for the Sabbat.
Series: Miscellaneous Vampire: The Masquerade Drabbles [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1949839
Kudos: 10





	Tonnerre

LaCroix peers out the window of his hotel room at the smoggy, towering silhouette of downtown Los Angeles. An approaching storm hangs above the city like a flock of vultures before the kill.

He exhales. It’s one of the few remnants of his humanity, that innate desire to breathe. He runs a thin hand through his mussed hair. The sooner tonight’s duties are done, the better. His age-old struggle against the storm is one of the few he has yet to master.

The phone rings. He’s checked it for writes and found none. Still, in his line of work it never hurts to err on the side of caution. His contact speaks in cryptic metaphor.

“A lily blooms behind the renovated church.”

“The renovated church? …Ah, yes, of course. I understand.”

Taking another wary glance out the window, he hangs up, dons his overcoat, and tucks his old revolver away. Hopefully, he won’t need it.

As rain begins to pelt the streets of Los Angeles, LaCroix makes his way on foot to the “renovated church.”

Nestled comfortably in the bones of an aging cathedral is a nightclub. Undulating strippers and drunk bar patrons worship to the choir of dated industrial music. LaCroix reluctantly weaves his way through the mass of inebriated humans mingling on the sidewalk.

Eventually he finds the deserted back alley, where the so-called “lily” waits for him near a dumpster. She’s a slight woman, dressed too professionally for her filthy surroundings. And yet, with her sleek black boots and crimson earrings, she seems almost at home against the backdrop of Gothic architecture and dreary trance music.

She steps forward. When she speaks, it’s in low, accented French – a small precaution against curious English-speaking listeners.

“These are your orders for the night.” She hands him a neatly folded note. 

“Merci.” He reads the note with some difficulty. The message is guarded by a combination of ciphers and another slew of cryptic metaphors. 

_Disregard the bishop and the disgraced pawn.  
Paint the rook black, or remove it from the board.  
The king and queen come after.  
Use your moves wisely, knight, lest you become like the pawn._

LaCroix purses his lips. To an outsider, this is little more than edgy adolescent prose. To him, the message is clearer than day: The local Sabbat are nothing. Woo the enemy. Convert them. And if that fails, destroy them utterly. The Sabbat will have Los Angeles.

“Burn the letter,” says the courier. She hands him a lighter.

LaCroix doesn’t need to look away, distance himself, or find someone else to burn the letter for him. For better or for worse, he does not cower before fire like most of his kin. Neither the mesmerizing flicker nor the uncomfortable heat of the flame frighten him. When it threatens to touch him, he drops the burning letter to the ground and watches as it crumbles and sputters in the damp air. He crushes the ashes beneath his heel and passes the lighter back to his companion.

She holds up her hand and points to the cigarette in her mouth. “May I have a light?” She leans forward.

He arches an eyebrow. She does not fear fire either, then? Curious. He lights her cigarette, all the while giving her a scrutinizing look.

“May I have your name, mademoiselle?” he finally asks in his politest tone.

She exhales deeply and allows a stream of smoke to drift from her open mouth. “Madame,” she corrects, “and my name is of no importance. I am just a courier.”

“…Yes, of course. Well then, I fear I cannot linger. This city does not favor our kind. Walk with caution, courier. ” LaCroix bows slightly at the waist.

She nods, a peculiar glint in her brown eyes. “And you as well, Crusader.”

\- - -

The storm has arrived in full by the time LaCroix returns to his hotel room. Paranoid of those who may be following him, he scans his apartment with Auspex before entering. He finds only a humble family of mice living in the walls, free of any hint of any vampiric corruption.

He discards his coat at his desk. He’s soaked to the bone. If he were human, he’d be shivering from the cold. A drink will set him straight, surely.

As he pours himself a glass of vitae from a refrigerated bottle, the lights in the room flicker. Rumbling thunder shakes the building to its very foundations.

Blood-tinged sweat mixes with the drops of rain still clinging to his face.

He sits on the corner of his bed and pushes his hair out of his face. He brings the vitae to his lips, but before he can drink, there is a flash of lightning and a deafening boom.

“Halte, halte! Rangs serrés!”

He is crushed between his frantic comrades as they attempt to fill the gap that has been torn into their ranks by an enemy cannonball. The rumble of a thousand charging hooves shakes the ground beneath his feet. There is another screeching whistle overhead, followed by mangled screams. The battalion sways as it frantically attempts to form a defensive square.

“Premier rang, à genoux! Dégainez vos baïonnettes! Présentez armes!”

He kneels and obeys. His musket rattles in his quaking hands as he adjusts his bayonet. Sharpened steel glints through the smoke. A sea of Russian cavalry bears down on them with swords drawn and teeth gnashing.

“Prêts!”

_“You will return?”_

“Visez-”

_“I always do.”_

“FEU!”

Before he can put the trigger, he is thrown into the dirt. His ears are ringing. He’s cold, too cold, he can’t breathe, there’s something on his chest…dammit, why can’t he _breathe_?

Gasping and dragging himself across the ground, he realizes what he lies on isn’t dirt. It’s solid…man-made. There is blood spattered on its surface. His unfocused gaze falls on a wine bottle. Rich vitae dribbles from its mouth in a rhythmic drip-drip-drip.

LaCroix grabs the bedside table and pulls himself upright. The rainstorm pounds against the side of the building. 

He stares down at his ruined drink and picks up the bottle. A modest amount of vitae remains inside. Without a second thought, he guzzles it down.

The thunder echoes in the distance, taunting him.

“Mock me if you will,” LaCroix says to no one. A familiar grogginess begins to muddle his thoughts. 

“I remain. I will always remain.”

**Author's Note:**

> Translations: 
> 
> Tonnerre - Thunder 
> 
> Halte, halte! Rangs serrés! - Halt, halt! Form ranks! 
> 
> Premier rang, à genoux! Dégainez vos baïonnettes! Présentez armes! - Front rank, kneel! Fix bayonets! Present arms! 
> 
> Prêts! Visez! FEU! - Ready, aim, fire!
> 
> The conversation between LaCroix and the "lily" was originally written in French with context clues as to what they were saying, but I abandoned this idea in favor of clarity.


End file.
